


The Perks Of Being An Occasional Art-Connoisseur

by Hekateras



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Illustrated, Prompt Art, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekateras/pseuds/Hekateras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The painting technique was quite remarkable, but the subject matter even more so - an angel half-kneeling in a dusty room, wings spread out.</p><p>Crowley recognised him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perks Of Being An Occasional Art-Connoisseur

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Crowley has a pic of Azzi naked, its very tasteful with urns and stuff so its real art! it was done in the 19th Century when Crowley was having his err nap. Not sure if Azzi know he has it. Crowley didn’t know about it till he saw it in the gallery.”

Crowley sauntered through the art gallery and smiled to himself.

The 21st century was a good time for evil. With over seven billion people on the planet, more things were going on than ever. Move around now and again, take a trip occasionally, hang around bars and parliament buildings and broadcasting stations, and you were just bound to end up at the right place at the right time every now and then. Later, Hell would tell you how impressed they were with the latest political scandal, or unbelievably inhuman legislation, or the phenomenon of pick-up artists, and you'd nod and smile humbly, why yes, you're only Hell's servant, just doing your job, thank you very much.

It was, on the whole, a rather relaxing experience.

Aziraphale had been complaining lately that the demon was far too preoccupied with the entertainment industry and was neglecting the deeper aspects of culture that made their time so interesting to live in.

Days later, Crowley had slapped a pamphlet onto the book Aziraphale was reading and given him a toothy smile.

And here he was now.

“Oh come on, now, Margaret, _anyone_ could do that. I could, with not a speck of the God-given talent in me.”

“But you _didn't_ , George, and that is what separates you from them.”

“That is ludicrous! It's only a splash of vomit on a canvas, for God's sake-”

“I think it's a very fitting statement, actually, on the nature of-”

Crowley swaggered down the hallway and grinned to himself. Talk about easy pickings.

He paused in front of an impressive landscape painting twice as tall as he was. A snotty-nosed brat shuffled up to him and looked at him petulantly.

“What is it, kid?” Crowley said warily.

“”S _boooring_.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Crowley rolled his shoulders, then smiled conspirationally and leaned down. “You know there's a huge ice cream parlor just a block down from here, don't you?”

The kid's eyes brightened with an unholy light. He spun around. “ _MOOOOOMMMMY!_ ” he wailed.

As the other visitors complained loudly and the mother rushed to calm the boy, Crowley strolled out of the room like an action film star walking away from the explosion.

And stopped.

The next room's collection was more classically inclined, with realism and romantic oil paintings from the 18th and 19th centuries.

On the wall opposite the entrance, the soft ambient lighting revealed a painting in an intricate golden frame, sealed safely behind glass. The painting technique was quite remarkable, but the subject matter even more so - an angel half-kneeling in a dusty room with drapes and urns and vases and a small window on the wall, wings spread out, a face framed with golden locks turned up thoughtfully and the bare skin faintly glowing with an inner light.

Crowley recognised him.

Very surreptitiously, he glanced left, right, behind him.

Then he stalked towards the painting.

The face was uncannily similar, just like the rest of him – though he was admittedly far less familiar with most of what the painting à-la-nu had to show, even as the angel's figure was half-obscured in gentle shadow.

Crowley felt an uncontrollable grin spreading across his face. He'd never have guessed. Still, perhaps it was all just a wacky coincidence...

He peered down at the little grey plaque.

_The Awakening Angel_

_Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres_

_Oil on canvas, 1837_

_This piece, depicting an angel coming to life inside a forgotten study, may be surprising to see among the work of an artist besotted with portraits and largely unconcerned with religious themes. The identity of the model has been a subject of much speculation, with some claiming that the somewhat androgynous-appearing angel was based off a secret male lover of the artist, but nothing has ever been confirmed. Jean Auguste himself, in his later years, claimed that he had witnessed the angel appear in a flash of blue light in a park one autumn evening in 1835, nude and unaware of his spectator, who had been stargazing behind a patch of shrubbery. According to Jean, the angel looked around, was suddenly clad in human garments, and vanished a moment later, but his appearance burned itself into his memory forever. Jean Auguste had been surprisingly resilient in insisting on the reality of his experience, dismissing the possibility of drink as the cause._

“Well, I'll be damned,” Crowley muttered to himself.

“Crowley, dear, where have you gotten off to?” a familiar voice crooned. Crowley froze, then slowly turned around. It was too late to run or try to divert his attention – the blasted angel wouldn't let them leave until they saw every last painting and read every plaque, anyway.

“Crowley, I have to say, I cannot believe what they are calling art these days, but they do have the most amazing... collection.... of....” the angel trailed off as he raised his eyes to the painting behind Crowley. His mouth opened slightly. “Erm. Um.” Pink spread across his face in a curious pattern. He stared.

“Good technique,” Crowley said conversationally to fill the very loud silence. Aziraphale turned to stare at him mutely. “The look's suspiciously authentic, though, doesn't it? I guess Gabriel can afford to be a bit looser on the whole public appearances bit, though, being an archangel and all.”

“Wha- Oh. Yes. Right. Gabriel. I suppose that does look like him,” Aziraphale said, peering at Crowley with suspicion.

“It's kind of silly, actually,” Crowley continued. “I mean, he goes to Earth maybe once a century, probably not even that, and gets a new body tailor-made for each appearance. So wasssteful. Look at you, on the other hand, you've had this corporation since, what was it, 1835?”

“Er, yes, quite.” The angel looked a bit more sternly at him. “Seeing as I'd been mugged and murdered while you were having your little _nap_ ,” he said tartly.

“I've warned you against reading while you walk,” Crowley said with long-suffering patience, then amiably wrapped an arm around the angel's shoulders, pulling him away. “Come on, let's see what else this circus has to offer.”

As he steered the angel out of the room, he threw one last look at the painting and smirked.  
  
  


The next evening found Crowley chatting with a gallery attendant. He felt cautiously for the traces of an angelic presence anywhere near him, then said, “I'm going to purchase this painting.”

“Err,” the gallery attendant looked at him in irritation, backing away a step. “Sir, this painting isn't for sale. None of them are.”

Crowley smiled and looked meaningfully at the clipboard the man was holding. “Why don't you check again?”

 

                                    



End file.
